


A Little Pick-Me-Up

by orphan



Series: Omeletteverse [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Precursor Emissary Newton Geiszler, Rimming, Very mild xeno, in the "genetic engineering for fun and sexytimes" way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan
Summary: It's a lovely day in the Shatterdome and your spouse is a horrible Precursor...
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: Omeletteverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974679
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	A Little Pick-Me-Up

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent nonsense from the hashtag-Alice-deserves-better squad 2020.

It’s late Friday afternoon when Hermann finally looks up and realizes Newton has been gone all day. Mostly because Julie comes to remind him, front paws in his lap, mandibles clicking in a truly desultory way, secondary limbs kneading up and down Hermann’s leg.

“Oh, hello.” Hermann scritches her behind the eyebrow ridges, receiving a chirruping purr in return. “Has Newton not taken you out today?”

Julie is, in Newton’s words, a “Clipper”; a prototype version of her significantly larger, similarly named cousins from the Tokyo attack, no bigger than a Labrador. Newton believes her a survivor of the destruction of the Siberian base, passed from disreputable black market to black market, before eventually being confiscated by the PPDC during a raid on a lab of dubious legality. Newton had saved her from extermination, claiming she was “totally harmless” (which, debatable) and moreover “totally not responsible for what she is, dude” (which, fair enough). Hermann, in a moment of post-orgasm-induced indulgence, had supported Newton’s position, and three days later Julie had arrived, curled up and shivering, inside an airtight crate.

She certainly bears the scars of her treatment; missing a back primary leg and multiple secondary legs, and covered muzzle to tail in heavy scarring that has left her half-blind. Hermann had been dubious over her prospects, yet somehow unsurprised when Newton had diligently nursed her back to health and kept her, not as a specimen, but as a pet. Terrifying and grotesque and loving and devoted, not unlike her creator.

Today, Newton is not in the lab, and Hermann has been rather lost staring at breach gate schematics. Work sent from his alternate universe counterpart, and currently up to Hermann to review and improve and, critically, develop a proposal for how best to incorporate the systems on their own world.

It is absolutely mind-bending work, and Hermann rather does think he’s earned a break.

“All right,” he tells Julie, painfully pushing himself to his feet. “I suppose fresh air will do us both good.” And perhaps a coffee, to boot.

Julie trills, nuzzling against Hermann’s good leg, then following him as he limps from the lab.

He truly does mean to go to the DFAC for an espresso and, possibly, some form of cake, but is stymied at the first intersection by Julie. She positions herself in front of his legs, gently pushing and whining as he tries to get past her. Like her cousins, Julie is tremendously strong and Hermann cannot move her when she does not want to be moved. Yet her body language is submissive, almost apologetic.

“I gather I will not, in fact, be obtaining afternoon tea,” Hermann says, amused. He isn’t entirely sure how much she understands, though Newton talks to her non-stop and it seems Hermann, too, has picked up the habit. “Where shall we go, then?” he asks, stepping back and gesturing with his free hand. “Lead on.”

She does, loping ahead in her three-limbed skip, constantly looking back to check Hermann is following. They’re stymied briefly by the elevators, at least until Hermann notices someone (“someone”) has circled the button for one of the lower levels in red marker and surrounded it with little hearts. Somehow, Hermann is not surprised, and thins his lips to hide the amused smirk as he dutifully goes to wherever he is being lead.

To one of the j-tech hangars, in fact. The one Hermann has not been allowed into for the last five months while Newton worked on a quote-unquote “surprise project” with the assistance of his alternate self (his _kaiju_ alternate self which . . . dear Lord Hermann thought their universe was full of hot nonsense).

Newton, who is currently leaning on the wall outside the closed hangar doors, looking altogether far too dashing in his waistcoat and jeans, rich white cotton shirt rolled to his elbows.

His face lights up when he sees Hermann, or perhaps Julie, or perhaps both of them, and in two strides they’re pressing together, Hermann’s free hand running greedily across fine navy wool and brilliant brocade silk and down to cup Newton’s delicious little arse through the pocket of his too-tight jeans.

“Ooh,” he gets in reply. “Hello to you too, Doctor Gottlieb.”

They kiss like teenagers, like men making up for lost time, Julie purring and chirruping and winding between their legs. Hermann suspects there will now never not be a part of him in awe that he gets to have this, have Newton, and by Jove he’s going to take advantage of it. Propriety be damned.

Newton is giggling when Hermann pulls away, chasing down one last kiss, hands wormed inside Hermann’s coat and grinning an absolutely wicked grin. He’s spent the last month growing a goatee—allegedly so the “other Newts will know which of us is the evil one”—and is wearing sunglasses indoors, because _of course_ he is, and the whole effect is entirely ridiculous and yet, somehow, it works.

Or perhaps it just works for Hermann. Either way, he’s certainly not going to admit it.

And then Newton says:

“Happy anniversary, babe.”

“Anniversary of what?” Hermann, who is tremendously good at remembering dates, asks. “And do not call me ‘babe.’”

“Anniversary of the first time _he_ ever opened one of your letters,” Newton says. “And thought, ‘Fuck yeah I’m gonna marry this big brain asshole.’”

“And they say romance is dead,” says Hermann, whose heart absolutely does not flutter at the thought. That was . . . that was a _long_ time ago.

“C’mon,” Newton takes a step backward, gently tugging Hermann’s free hand. “Wanna see your present?”

“You couldn’t’ve brought it up to the lab?”

Newton’s grin, if anything, gets even sharper. “Nope.” He slaps the button on the wall and, behind him, the enormous hangar doors begin too roll open.

“What on Earth is it?” Hermann asks, slightly nervous in spite of himself. It’s not that he thinks it’s anything _bad_ , exactly, but . . .

“Oh,” says Newton, stepping backwards through the opening door, arms outstretched like the enormous drama queen he is. “Just a little pick-me-up.” And something behind him _moves_.

Something huge, and charcoal grey, with enormous teeth and a glowing blue tongue and the metallic opaque glass of a Conn-Pod where the top of a head should be.

“What—?” is as far as Hermann gets, stumbling forward almost without thinking, trying to get a better look at . . . at whatever bizarre creature Newton has loosed upon them this time.

“Hermann,” he says, “meet Alice. Alice, Hermann. You never really got properly introduced.”

“Dear Lord,” says Hermann. “What did you—?”

It’s a kaiju, because of course it is, though partly armored like a Jaeger. About the size of a Ripper, maybe a little larger, with six, insect-like limbs and an enormous twist of tails, curved up over its body like a scorpion. And _wings_. And . . . and a _cockpit_ in the thorax, and—

“She’s a Breach ship,” Newton is explaining, petting the kaiju— petting _Alice’s_ jaw as he does. “Small prototype, y’know.”

“This is what you’ve been working on,” Hermann breathes. “With—”

“Other Newt,” Newton finishes. “Yup. And Jules’s crew.” A pause. “We invited Liwen, too, but she told us to go fuck ourselves.”

“Yes. Yes, I— I rather suspect she did.” Carefully, Hermann inches closer.

“She won’t bite,” Newton says, amused. Then, in the most ridiculous voice: “You won’t bite Papa, will you baby? You know he’s Daddy’s favorite. Yes you do.”

Alice’s teeth are bigger than Hermann is, and dripping with glowing drool. She has no visible eyes—hidden behind the Conn-Pod-like “helmet,” Hermann supposes, or perhaps replaced with less organic components—but he very much gets the impression she’s looking at him.

The floor of the hangar is about a story below the doorway, which opens onto a metal-grilled mezzanine. Alice is peering over the railing of the latter to observe them, emitting a faint rumble that might be a growl or might be a purr or might be something else entirely, and the Hermann of today certainly has significantly more experience with living kaiju than the Hermann of a year ago, but not one quite so _large_. It is . . . an experience. Awe-inspiring.

Hermann forces himself to approach. Alice smells quite viscerally of salt and a kind of chemical crispness that reminds Hermann, perversely, of sauerkraut. Her breath ruffles his hair and she’s tremendously warm beneath his fingers when he puts a hand on her jaw.

“Lord . . .” he says, and doesn’t know how to continue.

“Isn’t she great?” Newton enthuses, because Lord forfend he ever give Hermann a moment of quiet contemplation. “Ready to go?”

“Re—?” is as far as Hermann gets, before Newton is patting Alice’s jaw with a: “Two to go up, babycakes.”

Before Hermann can comment on any of this, Alice shifts, head moving back and lowering, two segments unwinding from her arched tails. Hermann has just enough time to process what this may mean when one of the . . . the _tentacles_ wraps itself around his body, and he’s being lifted from the mezzanine.

He yelps in surprise, thrashing almost instinctively before realizing that may, in fact, be an entirely terrible idea. Alice’s grip around him is strangely comfortable, wrapped around his torso and under his buttocks not unlike the way a human would pick up a cantankerous cat, and before Hermann’s really had time to process, he finds himself deposited gently into Alice’s “cockpit.”

The unexpected ride has left him rather shaken, and he sits down heavily on one of lounges that ring the area. Newton’s boots hit the floor much more adroitly as he jumps down from his own tentacle, arms thrown out like a showman as he proclaims, “Ta-daa! Whaddaya think?”

His voice is irreverent and his grin manic, but Hermann knows him well enough to know the question is sincere; he really does care what Hermann thinks of his project, of _Alice_. So Hermann looks.

The area they’re in is more like a living room than anything else; the lounges are cream leather and very comfortable, with little side tables and compartments to tuck objects and cups. There’s even a little padded hutch for Julie, who scurries happily into it, obviously used to the whole thing.

The front half of the space is a console, with two suspension-mounted pilot chairs—still tremendously comfortable and luxurious looking—and a holodisplay. The back has two archways, leading into another cabin, and in front of the wall between them?

Is Alice. Or, rather, Alice’s brain. Still floating in a glass cylinder a little taller than a man, attached to far more cables than the last time Hermann saw it. Newton is standing next to it, hand on the glass, the brain practically vibrating with excitement inside its yellow-green fluid. There are armchairs to either side and on the wall behind it all is a mural. Done in the same style as Newton’s tattoos.

A Precursor.

It’s seated right behind Alice’s tank, head looking above the top, arms outstretched to either side in complex positions like a deva. It’s six eyes are purple-bright and watchful, and suddenly Hermann knows, just _knows_ , it isn’t simply “a Precursor.” It’s Newton.

Or, perhaps more accurately, how the part of Newton that will never truly be human again sees itself. Standing guard over the beast that made it, inside the creature it carved in turn; an endless cycle of death and rebirth and change and renewal, beautiful and terrible and strange.

Hermann swallows, mouth suddenly dreadfully dry. “It . . . Newton, this is frankly astounding. I’m honestly at a loss for words.” Newton _made_ this. Hermann knew, intellectually, he was capable; Tokyo proved as much. But he supposes that, in a way, he’d still been keeping that Newton separate, in his mind, from _Newton_. And yet . . . “You said this— you said she’s a ship?”

It’s like a light switching back on; Newton’s grin switching from fragile to blinding in a heartbeat, shored up with the bracing of Hermann’s interest.

“Breach ship,” Newton says. He pats Alice’s tank twice, then is striding forward to Hermann, arm outstretched. “We haven’t done the test run on that yet—Hermann Prime is still carrying the ones—but she flies and runs and swims and c’mon c’mon c’mon!”

His enthusiasm is infectious, and Hermann smiles as he’s pulled to his feet and pushed into the left pilot chair. Newton throws himself down in the right, spinning and bouncing gleefully on the suspension as he swipes at the holodisplay.

“Woo, let’s do this this all right yeah!”

Alice _moves_. Hermann should have expected it but he still yelps at the lurch, then laughs at himself for the sound.

Meanwhile, the air in the cockpit changes and Hermann watches in fascination as smooth, transparent plates emerge from Alice’s thorax to close in a dome over their heads. The barrier is warm when Hermann touches it, several inches thick and crystal clear.

“Living k-glass,” he breathes, and gets an enthusiastic, “Yup!” in reply.

They’ve recovered k-glass from corpses, of course; there’s even a thriving industrial aftermarket for kaiju corneas and lenses. As everything with the kaiju, k-glass is incredibly light and incredibly durable, and far less fragile that its inorganic silicate equivalent. But Hermann has never before seen so _much_ of it, and never been in a position to observe it alive. He’s so close to it, leaning over the console, that he gives another startled yelp as it abruptly polarizes.

“Opaque from the outside,” Newton explains, looking far too pleased with himself. “Can go full opaque, too. Plus there’s a chitin carapace if things get, y’know. Hairy.”

“She’s designed for combat,” Hermann surmises, and gets a shrug.

“Nah. Like, not primarily? But, we’re not gonna leave baby totally defenseless.” Said with a pout and a pat to the console and an implied _not again_ , to boot.

Alice’s six-legged gait is . . . strange. Rolling, somehow, through surprisingly smooth. She’s moving herself to the hangar doors, which grind open to allow her passage. Hermann is suddenly hit with a thought, and: “Are— are you allowed to—?”

“Relax, Herms; cleared it with Mako. No one’s gonna come chase us down in a Jaeger for absconding.”

“I should certainly hope not.” Hermann tries for prissy and utterly fails to get there, what with the ridiculous grin threatening to break out across his face at any moment.

He’s inside a _living spaceship_. Or . . . near enough. Every time his mind glances across the thought the enormity of it threatens to swallow him. A living ship, capable of traversing time and space. That Hermann’s husband created, and kept secret, to unveil as a gift.

Oh, Lord.

Hermann distracts himself by watching the outside. They’ve attracted a crowd, j-techs and cadets and administrative staff gaping and pointing as they pass. He supposes they must look absolutely frightful, and the _power_ of it—to be in control of such a terrifying creature—is, he has to admit, quite a rush.

And then:

“Ready?”

They’re almost to the edge of the landing area, and Hermann has just enough time to splutter out, “Ready for—?” when Alice _lurches_ , and Hermann’s ears abruptly try and make friends with his knees, then vice versa.

And then the water comes up to meet them.

Hermann flinches, hands coming up to cover his face, but of course nothing happens; Alice simply jumps off the pier and into the bay, smoothly and naturally, as the waves close over the cockpit’s dome.

“Incredible . . .”

“We’ve got to get out to at least the Mile underwater,” Newton says, poking at his displays. “Then we can do the fun stuff.” Then, before Hermann can query what that’s supposed to mean: “Here. You drive.” And he flicks his entire console over to Hermann’s side.

“I— Newton, I-I have no—”

“Here.” Newton leans over, picking up Hermann’s hands and hovering them over two spherical projections. “Faster-slower on the left, up-down-left-right on the right. Easy. Like this.” He pushes both hands sharply forward and Alice dives precipitously in response. In the blue glow of her bioluminescence, Hermann sees the sea floor coming up to meet them.

“Newton!” he barks, just as Alice levels off, shooting across the sand.

“Relax, dude,” Newton laughs. “She’s a living creature, and she’s not stupid. She’s not gonna crash herself into things just because you can’t drive.” He even has the absolute gall to kiss Hermann on the cheek before he leans back, the absolute cad. “It’s, like . . . riding a horse, right? The controls are suggestions; she wants to follow them because she’s built to be loyal. But she has her own opinions, too.”

“Terrifying,” Hermann murmurs, even as he pulls them off the sea floor. He does not ease back on the acceleration, fascinated by the way Alice easily maneuvers around obstacles while still attempting to keep to Hermann’s course. “How fast—?”

“Three hundred clicks underwater, four hundred on land, air . . . not sure. She can go supersonic but could probably push it much further if we had her fly unmanned.” Newton rocks himself back in his chair, feet thrown up onto the console. He has at least kicked off his boots, which Hermann supposes counts as obsequiously respectful in his world. “She’s not really built for speed, though,” he says. “She can burst, but forcruising you’re looking at more like one twenty, three, and eight for long runs.”

“Dear Lord.” That is still enormously swift. “And fuel?”

“Organic silicone if it’s around, but mainly chemosynthesis; took that one from the Newt, very efficient. And if she needs a pick-me-up, can plug her into the grid.” He grins. “Tweaked from Raijin.”

He looks so unbearably smug. Of _course_ he does; he’s always argued kaiju bioengineering to be far more efficient than their traditional technologies and, damn him. He’s right. This is a _product demo_ , as much as it is a gift. He wants Hermann to love Alice as much as he does, to be as proud of her as he is. And Hermann . . .

Well. Hermann is certainly seeing himself open to being convinced.

 _“She can’t help what she is,”_ Newton had told him, months ago now. _“And she isn’t responsible for anything that happened. She’s a victim, too.”_ It’d been just after their return to the ‘Dome, Hermann adamant in destroying the thing that had, in his mind, caused Newt so much torment.

And ironically it had been Newt— _the_ Newt, Newton’s alternate universe self—who’d shown them how to free Alice from her torment in turn. How to carve out the part of her the Precursors had left behind, how to make her comfortable in her dismembered state. He’d even spoken to her, through the hive mind, those times he’d come to visit. _“No kaiju left behind,”_ he’d told Hermann, in his strange, synthetic voice. _“Fuck the Anteverse. They don’t respect what they have so they don’t get shit.”_

Hermann really should not have expected anything less.

* * *

There’s a map as part of Alice’s HUD, as well as the manual control.

“Give her a destination and an ETA and she’ll try and get there,” Newton had explained. “She’s got some rules—no going near people, basically—but she’s pretty self sufficient.”

Incredible. Truly incredible. Hermann had programmed the first Jaeger AIs and suddenly it feels like LEGO Technics in comparison.

(“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dude,” Newton tells him, when he expresses this. “Alice is only half of what she should be, so there’s a heap of Hermann Prime’s code in here to help her. The Newt helped teach her how to interface with it all.” Truly a remarkable project.)

When they’re long out past the Miracle Mile Newton leans over, grinning, and says: “Wanna take us up, Doctor G?”

“Up?”

Newton gestures skyward with his chin. “Up. She has wings for a reason, babe.”

And . . . _oh_.

“Oh. I—”

A childhood dream, long since abandoned in the scream of tires and the agony of blood. To take to the sky, and beyond. To soar, to be _free_.

Newton knows all this, of course. And looks dreadfully smug for it, besides. And that simply will not do.

“Well then,” Hermann says, and pulls back on Alice’s pitch even as he pushes forward on her thrust. Newton whoops—in surprise, in joy—as she lurches forward, as if she’s as eager to get airborne as Hermann is. It’s exhilarating, roaring through the water and breaking the surface in an explosion of spray, Alice’s enormous wings unfolding and beginning their oscillation. They skip across the water’s surface once, twice. Then they’re bursting skyward, inertia pushing Hermann back into his chair, forcing the laughter from his lungs.

Oh, Lord. It’s everything he’d ever imagined. _More_ , even. Because it’s real. He’s here; in a cockpit, at the helm of . . . of something totally unique on planet Earth. Like flying a fighter jet and flying a _dragon_ , all at once, and in a fit of near-hysterical impulse he swipes Alice’s roll, just to see what she’ll do.

He is not disappointed; the sky and ocean spinning dizzily as Alice folds her wings in response and spins into freefall, opening out again just before they crash back into the ocean’s surface.

Newton shrieks in surprise, limbs flying awkwardly at the momentum, even as he’s laughing. “Holy shit you maniac warn us next time!”

“Never!” Hermann announces, and does it again, back the other way, more carefully this time, still pitching up. Alice is . . . beautifully responsive to his commands; there’s an indicator on the HUD not unlike the sync status for Jaeger pilots, that seems to show Alice’s acceptance of Hermann’s input. It pulses a brilliant, electric blue. Alice is _happy_ , Hermann realizes. She wants to fly, she wants to play. And she wants to do it together.

“Does she . . . know who’s piloting her?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Newton gestures to what Hermann had previously assumed to be blue LEDs, scattered about the cockpit. “She can see and hear us, plus smell and taste.” Not LEDs at all; _eyes_.

“Taste?”

Newton runs a hand over the console. “Not every surface, obviously. But the console, yeah. She’s not gonna respond to just anyone. Only Newts and Hermanns allowed. If she’s in sleep mode and you wanna wake her up, touch her and say her name; should be enough.”

It suddenly occurs to Hermann he can have this _whenever he wants_ (pending approval from the Marshal, of course). Alice is a sentient, living organism, even. It would . . . it would be deeply inhumane not to take her out at least once a day. To stretch her legs and wings, to feed. And given the mechanism of the latter—the chemosynthesis, drawing pollutants from the ocean—it’s practically a public service.

Today, they fly. Arcing above the clouds then plunging back down, spinning and rolling and free falling in ways that have Hermann’s stomach lurching and Newton covering his eyes and biting back shrieks. They find a storm out to sea and hover above it for a while, watching the lightning. Then dart through, skipping across enormous waves. When they break through the far side, the sun is setting and Hermann eases back from the controls, getting lost in the sight and the enormity of it all. This beautiful world he’s devoted his life to preserving.

Eventually, as the first glimmering stars begin to emerge, he says: “I suppose we should head back.”

Newton, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, scoffs. “Pfft. Nah. We’re not due back until tomorrow.” He gestures above the console, pulling the controls back from Hermann’s side. “You haven’t even seen the rest of the ship, yet.” He flicks at the HUD a little, setting their path to somewhere in the middle of the Philippine Sea, near as Hermann can tell. Alice obediently begins to bank, and Newton unbuckles himself from his seat.

“There’s more?” Hermann asks, before remembering the doorways at the back. He unbuckles and stands as well, following Newton to the rear of the cockpit.

(Newton presses his hand to Alice’s tank as he passes. From the fingerprints on the glass, it seems he does it every time; an old habit, a gesture of comfort. Hermann doesn’t quite copy the motion, though finds it less . . . concerning. Than he would’ve done, yesterday.)

“Ta-daa!” Newton announces, from the second cabin. “Home away from home.”

It’s a bedroom. Actually, it seems like an entire small apartment; there’s a kitchenette between the doors, plus another doorway leading to what appears to be a small bathroom.

“You made a . . . a living, flying mobile home?” Hermann splutters. Then: “What am I saying. Of _course_ you did. Of course.”

Newton laughs, gently nudging Hermann aside so he can start pulling things out of the kitchenette’s little fridge. A bottle of Krug, a cake box, platters of what looks like sushi. He pulls out a picnic basket from a cupboard—a real, actual, wicker and gingham picnic basket—and loads everything in even as Hermann starts to feel Alice being to lose altitude.

They return to the cockpit for the descent, sitting on the couches this time, Hermann watching out the window in rapt fascination.

There’s an island; just a tiny comma of sand and trees, an untouched and undeveloped speck with nothing but ocean on every horizon. Alice lowers herself almost daintily onto the beach, cockpit dome opening to let in the rush of hot, damp evening air.

“C’mon!” Newton announces, jumping to his feet with a exaggerated bow. “Your table awaits, good sir.”

Getting onto the ground involves another trip via tentacle; one Hermann handles slightly more stoically than the first. With her cargo unloaded, Alice folds her carapace over her cockpit, and scuttles out into the surf, digging herself in to, Hermann assume, absorb her own dinner from the water.

“Incredible,” he says, to no one in particular.

Newton has found himself a spot further up the beach, and is busy laying out a large blanket and unpacking their picnic. Julie runs up to him as he does so, a piece of driftwood clenched in her massive teeth, then growls playfully as Newton tries to take it from her.

“Gotta let go if you want us to throw it for you,” Newton is saying, when Hermann approaches.

“How . . . how on Earth did you find this place?” Hermann asks.

“We— hah! Gotcha!” Stick freed, Newton throws it off into the tree line, Julie eagerly lunging after it. “We own it, dude.”

“You— No you do not!”

Newton just laughs, throwing himself down onto the blanket. “Thought you went through all our assets?”

Hermann scowls, thinking. Then: “I— When I saw you had land in the Philippines—”

“You assumed it was, like. _In_ the Philippines.” He reaches up, grinning shamelessly.

“How . . . do I even want to know _how_ you own your own island?” He takes Newton’s hands, allowing the assistance to help him lever himself to the ground.

“Same way everyone else does, we guess,” comes the answer. “Went to buy-private-islands-dot-com and just . . . found one we liked. Cost about five mil, USD. Kinda disappointingly cheap, really. This was, like. Years ago, right after we’d kinda had the realization Shao had made us disgustingly, ridiculously rich. We were struggling with dumb things to try and spend it on.” He throws the stick for Julie again, into the sea this time, and she bounds off after it no less joyously.

“How did you even get out here?”

“Yacht.”

Hermann doesn’t even know why he’s surprised. “You owned a yacht. Of _course_ you owned a yacht. A yacht and an _island_.”

Newton laughs, handing Hermann two champagne glasses and reaching for the Krug. “Well, we sold the yacht but technically fifty percent of this island is _your_ island, oh darling husband.”

“Dear Lord,” Hermann mutters, as Newton’s laughter turns to a yelp as the champagne pops and fizzes all over the sand.

“That’s on you!” Newton exclaims. “You and your insane piloting. Leading our little Alice astray!”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “I’m sure these sands have seen worse than some mid-priced vintage champagne.”

“You’re the first person we’ve brought out here. So, like. Probably not, actually. Cheers!”

Hermann takes his offered glass, clinking it against Newton’s with a strange, clenching feeling in his gut. He knows how . . . lonely Newton’s years at Shao were. But it’s still not something he likes to dwell on.

“What did you . . . do?” Hermann asks. Carefully, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. “Out here on your own?”

But Newton just smiles at him, eyes glinting over the rim of his glass. “You’ll see,” he says.

* * *

They eat dinner, sitting on the sand. Sushi from Shikon, because of course it is, plus a small—and completely squashed—Black Forest cake they scrape out of the box and make rather a mess of, trying to feed it to each other.

They finish the champagne, Julie goes off to explore the island in disgust at their antics and, slowly, the stars come out.

“Oh,” says Hermann, on his back on the blanket, Newton’s head nestled on his chest. “Oh, I see.”

Newton came here to _stargaze_.

“It was probably the only time we were ever kinda, y’know. Happy,” he says. “We’d come out here, and pretend it was just . . . all over. Just the sea and the stars left.”

“Newton . . .”

“Always kinda wished you were here with us, though,” Newton adds, overly cheerfully. “And, hey! Now you are.” He rolls over, arms and thigh wrapping around Hermann, holding on just a shade too desperately.

“Oh, darling.” Hermann brings his own arms up around his husband’s shoulders, enjoying the solidity of him, the living warmth. It’s rather balmy and Hermann has long since lost his sweater, and Newton his vest, meaning Hermann can feel the smooth ridges of scales beneath the cotton of Newton’s shirt.

Newton can feel the attention, and sighs, and says: “Guess this wasn’t really what you were expecting, huh? When Baby Herms wrote back, all those years ago.”

Right. Newton’s anniversary. Hermann opens his mouth to give the obvious answer. Then closes it, and reconsiders. Then: “I would not have guessed it, no.” Who possibly could have? “But . . . if my future self had appeared to me, and explained it . . . I suspect I would not have been entirely surprised.”

Newton barks laughter. “Wow,” he says. “We’ve gotta seriously up our unpredictability game if you think us turning out to be a semi-reformed brain-fried mutant alien war criminal was ‘not entirely surprising’ in like circa 20-fucking-14.”

“I dare say the part where you discovered a great love of early morning fitness would certainly have left me doubts as to the story’s veracity,” Hermann says, and earns a raspberry to the neck for his efforts.

It tickles, and he shrieks, and the two of them end up in the sort of juvenile shoving match that involves a great deal more rubbing up against one another than “shoving” per se. This, in turn, leads to kissing, and hands worming their way beneath shirts, and Newton, breathless and pressed into the blanket, into the sand, laughing and gasping.

Hermann pops the buttons of his shirt, hands running in long strokes down Newton’s firm chest, over the snarling kaiju on his belly, over the scales of his flanks. It’s full dark, the moon barely a sliver, and Newton’s eyes _gleam_ where they keep flicking between Hermann and the endless sky above; too-blue and too-rapturous.

“You’ve been doing more work on yourself,” Hermann guesses.

The smirk he gets in return in unrepentantly wicked. “Just for you, babe,” comes the reply, Newton taking Hermann’s hand and guiding it to his half-hard prick, straining beneath his jeans.

“You are absolutely incorrigible.” Hermann gives the bulge beneath his hand a squeeze, Newton squirming and arcing in response. “Should I be expecting tentacles, perhaps? Spines?” It’s been rather a few weeks since they’ve had the time or energy for a shag, what with one thing and another. Rather a lot of nonsense Newton could’ve gotten up to, in those weeks.

“We could!” comes the answer, far too eagerly. “If you want.”

“Mm. One thing at a time, perhaps.” Hermann has never before considered himself into anything quite so exotic. On the other hand... well. His alternate universe self is apparently in a fulfilling, long-term sexual and romantic relationship with a fifteen foot kaiju. So perhaps he’s not quite as vanilla as he’d always assumed. Still. Something for another day.

He lowers himself back down, kissing along Newton’s neck and jaw, hand rubbing shamelessly at jeans that must be getting rather uncomfortable. “Fuck,” Newton babbles, as Hermann teeth bite down onto his earlobe, just lightly. “Fuck, wanna suck you off. Then fuck you.”

“Looking to try out your new . . . modifications?” The prick beneath his hand doesn’t feel _too_ different, but it’s a little hard to tell through the denim.

“Fuck yeah.” Accompanied by a too-manic grin and those wild-bright eyes.

“I suppose I could be amenable. For science, you understand.”

“Sexy fucking science,” Newton laughs, and Hermann allows himself to be rolled over and onto his back.

It’s only when thick, black-nailed fingers begin unbuttoning his shirt that Hermann realizes Newton intends them to perform said “sexy science” here. On the beach. In view of . . . well. The kaiju? The Google Earth satellite? Whichever world intelligence agency is almost certainly tracking them—or more specifically Newton—at any one moment? _8:46pm: H. Gottlieb received fellatio from target. Appeared satisfied._

Sod it. At least no one can accuse him of going to his grave a virgin. Take that, Jason Monroe from Sixth Form!

He moans his appreciation as Newton trails slightly too-toothy kisses down his chest, rough nails tweaking at his nipples in a way that sends delightful shivers into his belly. Hermann’s thighs fall open, hips rocking upwards, trousers doing nothing whatsoever to hide his growing arousal. When Newton’s hand moves to cup him through the fabric, warm and strong, Hermann’s eyes fly open, almost involuntarily, to try and stop himself coming right then and there.

All he can see above him are stars.

The Milky Way, stretched out and magnificent. One quintillion kilometers and over a hundred billion stars, thirteen billion years old and change. One of over two trillion in the universe and—they now know—only one universe of a potential infinity.

“Lord,” Hermann breathes, heart racing and nerves singing from the warm-damp feel of Newton’s lips and the soft-rough scratch of his beard. So deeply, viscerally physical that it’s a vertiginous experience, in the face of such universal vastness.

“Knew you’d be hot for space,” Newton mutters, breath ghosting across Hermann’s belly.

“O-of course,” Hermann gasps. “My ardor is reserved for astronomy alone. Your ministrations have nothing to do with it.”

“We’ll just have to try harder, then,” comes the reply, as Newton pops the button on Hermann’s trousers. The crisp sound of the fly is almost obscene in the otherwise quiet evening, though Hermann has no time to ponder it when he feels the hot press as Newton begins to mouth him through his pants.

“Oh. Oh, Lord yes.”

His fingers thread through thick, wild hair; not gently. Newton just laughs, rubbing his cheek and nose against Hermann’s throbbing prick, both delicious and deliciously not enough. Hermann lifts his hips, opens his thighs. Rocking almost involuntarily, trying for _more_ ; more heat, more pressure, more _anything_. He cries out when he gets it, Newton pulling his prick free and licking a stripe from base to glans, then back down again, hot mouth following in his tongue’s path.

It’s good. It’s _so good_. Hermann’s fingers tighten and his hips rock and Newton pulls back just enough to say, “Do it, babe. Fuck our mouth.” Which, oh Lord Hermann does not need any more encouragement.

He pulls his good knee up for leverage, pushes Newton’s head down with his hands, not gently, and gasps as he feels the tight channel of Newton’s throat close around the head of his prick.

“Bloody hell,” he blurts, when Newton swallows, and the vibrating feel of the choked-off laughter it elicits sends his eyes rolling back into his head. Newton always was rather talented with his mouth, but as his fingers come up to cup Hermann’s arse, to encourage his thrusts—

“Did you—?” is all he manages to choke out. Because nothing he does seems to make Newton gag or pull back. Like the blasted man’s somehow _genetically engineered away his own gag reflex_ which, honestly, would be extremely, as they say, “on brand.”

Well. He obviously wants to test out this new . . . feature, as it were. So who is Hermann to deny him?

Hermann groans, head falling back against the blanket, foot digging into the sand as he finds a comfortable rhythm. Long and slow and deep, relishing the slick heat of Newton’s mouth, the hot press each time his fauces tighten around Hermann’s cockhead.

“Oh, darling yes,” Hermann gasps. To Newton, to the stars. “That’s lovely.”

It truly is. The night air is pleasantly warm, the sand surprisingly comfortable. The only sounds are their own and the pounding bass of the surf, the whirring hum of the island’s insects. If Hermann opens his eyes he sees Mars and Jupiter, Antares and Arcturus. Like he’s floating, nothing but the sea and the stars and the feeling of warm bliss radiating through his core, singing along his nerves, blood and bone and muscle and flesh unspooling and unravelling until—

“Oh! Oh, I’m going to—”

Strong fingers tighten against his arse, pulling him closer, deeper. Falling into that all-encompassing heat. Hermann gasps, the pounding of the waves meeting the rushing of his blood as his focus collapses inwards, just the wet heat of Newton’s mouth, the gentle undulations of his tongue.

Hermann arches off the blanket as he comes, fingers digging painfully tight against Newton’s scalp. The orgasm is tremendously good, shivery and bright and hot, pulsing raw and thick into that welcoming throat. Newton takes it like a champ, sucking and flexing until Hermann is a panting, shivering wreck, half sat-up in the dark, disheveled and sweating in the suddenly too-hot night air.

“Well,” Hermann manages, after some time. After his prick softens and his brain comes back online.

He’s still in Newton’s mouth, the man himself looking incredibly smug, mouth still and warm. His eyes really are unnaturally bright in the gloom, and Hermann gently pulls him off.

“You are quite filthy,” Hermann says, because it’s true; there is a not insubstantial quantity of drool in Newton’s beard and, well. All over Hermann’s groin. It’s not something he can bring himself to particularly care about, not when Newton flops down beside him, worming underneath his arm.

“How was that?” Newton asks. “Better than beating off in your old twin bed staring at your little press-on stars?” In reference to Hermann’s childhood bedroom. And, yes. An activity a significantly younger version of Hermann used to engage in rather frequently.

“I never understood why you insist on calling a single bed a ‘twin,’” Hermann says, in lieu of an answer.

“‘Cause they originally came in pairs, Doctor Subject-Changer. You had to sleep separately so your spouse couldn’t suck out all your energy in the night.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing wrong,” Hermann quips. “I shall have to try harder, Lord knows you’ve got enough to go around.”

Newton grabs Hermann’s hand, pushing it against the bulge in his jeans. “Right here, babe,” he leers. “Just for you. You can suck its energy any time you want.”

Hermann shifts, keeping his hand in place even when Newton drops it. “I’m afraid I’m not quite as skilled in these things as you.”

Newton’s eyes roll back and he shivers, whether from the compliment or from the soft kneading of Hermann’s fingers or both. They curl together in the dark, Hermann’s hand working and Newton’s breath growing first more ragged, then smothered beneath the wet-soft sounds as they kiss. Eventually, it’s Newton who pulls away with a gasped, “Fuck! Stop. Wanna . . . get you in a bed, first. So we can fuck you proper.”

Hermann’s eyebrows twitches. “The bed _inside_ the kaiju?”

Newton huffs laughter. “What? Me blowing you on the beach while Alice watches is fine, but you draw the line at getting your world rocked inside the actual bedroom?”

“It does feel rather . . . invasive.”

“Okay, so. Like. Firstly, you have mites fucking in your eyebrows _right now_ —”

“I most certainly do not!”

“Statistically you most certainly do. So, like. Does that bother you?”

“Well, now that you’ve mention—”

“And _secondly_ ,” announced as if Hermann hadn’t spoken. “Dude. We Drifted with Alice for like a decade. She knows Daddy fucks.”

“Newton, I say this with utmost sincerity: I love you dearly, but if you ever—and I mean _ever—_ use those words in that order again, I am filing for divorce.”

Newton laughs, shoulders shaking, face buried against Hermann’s chest, arm wrapped around his waist.

They lay there for a little while, quiet and happy and still; Hermann still pleasantly buzzed from his orgasm, Newton cooling down enough that they can actually make it back to the bedroom. Because, yes. For all Hermann’s protests, he absolutely is going to allow Newton to fuck him through the mattress, and is going to enjoy it immensely. The social mores of the kaiju and the hive mind are beyond him—he struggles enough with his own species, let alone someone else’s—but he knows both Newts have discussed it. Loudly. At length. And bizarre as it is to think, Alice truly is Newton’s Drift partner, and they are genuinely fond of each other, in their own alien ways. They do not wish to hurt one another, now they’re in a position to make that choice, and Newton would not do something that would cause Alice true distress.

Strange new world, indeed.

Hermann dozes, just a little; warm and comfortable and held. At least until he jolts himself awake with a snore, and Newton laughs at him, and that absolutely will not do. So Hermann tickles him in retaliation, and they end up giggling and wrestling in the sand, until one particularly undignified shriek brings Julie running from the dark, ready to defend her masters.

By the time they’ve calmed her down, Hermann supposes they should head inside. So he packs their things and Newton shakes out the picnic blanket, and Julie’s glow lights the sand as they pick their way back down to the shore.

Alice has disappeared completely beneath the waves, but she rises towards them when Newton calls her. There’s a part of Hermann that will always find terror in the sight of neon blue, fast approaching from the sea . . . but there’s something undeniably thrilling about it, too. Particularly when Alice surfaces to do nothing more than crouch down in front of them, making odd clicking sounds, patient and attentive.

Of course, getting back aboard involves hitching a ride on a seawater-wet tentacle, which even Newton admits may have been a design flaw. Hermann just _hmm_ s, stripping from his own damp clothing, leaning against the bulkhead for support as the cabin sways and Alice repositions herself back in the surf.

The bed is rather comfortable when he throws himself down on it, if oddly elevated. Newton is busy chasing Julie around with a towel, scolding her for tracking water and sand into the cabin. She finds the whole thing a tremendously exciting game, judging from the chirruping barks and the way Newton can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. Not quite in line with the scenes of domestic bliss a much younger Hermann had once hesitantly allowed himself to imagine . . . but no less sweet for all its strangeness.

He half-dozes atop the duvet, listening to the sounds of Newton closing the bulkhead doors—Julie safely put to bed in the cockpit—and stripping his own clothes. The bed bounces when he throws himself down on it, then a series of electronic beeps, then the lights go out and Hermann hears the strange, organic thunking of moving kaiju chitin.

He opens his eyes, and—

“Oh.”

The bedroom ceiling opens, too. Another enormous dome of k-glass, nothing but the night sky visible beyond.

“Only the best for our honey,” Newton says, grinning and smug and very naked.

Hermann rolls over and kisses him. It’s just . . . simple. So simple. After everything, it still sometimes takes Hermann’s breath away that he gets to have this. That he can reach out, and Newton will reach back. That there is a warm body that will press, eager and hungry, alongside his. So many missed chances and lost opportunities and those three, awful months—when Hermann had thought Newton dead, and Newton had thought himself abandoned—and now . . . this.

The room is dark but for the starlight and the soft blue glow of Alice herself, and it casts everything in a dream-like monochrome. Newton is little more than a writhing aggregation of shadows, pressing Hermann down into the bed, nipping at his throat, opening his legs.

“Roll over for us,” he breathes, and Hermann does, agreeable and easy.

They shift around a little, pulling back the duvet and propping up Hermann’s hips with a pillow. Newton kneels behind him, pushing Hermann’s thighs as wide as they will go—just to the edge of pain and never further—hands kneading Hermann’s arse, thumbs dipping into the crack and ghosting over the hole.

Hermann sighs and closes his eyes and relaxes himself into the feel of it. Not nearly young enough to go again, but there’s a certain leisurely bliss in allowing his body for use. He is in no particular hurry for any particular thing; Newton may proceed as quickly or as slowly as he will, and Hermann will enjoy it all the same.

What Newton is currently doing is kissing down the twisted nodules of Hermann’s spine; Th10 and 11 and 12, L1 and 2 and 3 and it’s like a countdown, Newton’s fingers spreading Hermann open until breath ghosts across his hole and then the hot-damp-wet of a tongue, licking through his cleft.

Hermann hums, squirming slightly at the feeling. Newton is the only partner Hermann’s ever had who has been quite so enthusiastic about this act, and while Hermann enjoys it, there’s always an edge of . . . something dirty, something forbidden, that goes with feeling that thick muscle probe inside him. He shifts his hips, rocking, unsure if he’s trying for more or trying for less, and gets a humming laugh for his indecision. Then a thick thumb, pressing against his hole, teasing, pleading to be let inside.

The thought of it lights a coil of heat in Hermann’s gut. Not enough to fill his prick, but enough to have him gasping, fingers clenching in cotton bedsheets so luxurious they feel almost like silk. His hips hump against the pillow beneath him, almost involuntarily; the languid pleasure a delicious counter to the burn as Newton’s thumb pushes inside. There’s something almost too easy about the way it slides in, a damp wetness far too slick for simple saliva.

“Did—” Hermann gasps. “Did you do—?”

Newton’s tongue laves another stroke, the changes in his spit more obvious now. Like he truly can secrete lube from his mouth. It must be voluntary—Hermann doesn’t remember noticing it before—and . . . sod it. Why not.

“I sup-suppose you’ll add an aphrodisiac, next,” Hermann quips. “Maybe a muscle relaxant.”

“Whatever you want, babe.” Newton’s voice is . . . wetter than usual. Thicker. “Whatever we need to fuck you like you want it, that’s what we can do.”

“Oh Lord,” Hermann groans, and gets a delightedly wicked laugh in response.

He huffs a little when Newton’s thumb pulls out, but it’s fast replaced by a thick finger and he isn’t left empty for long. Hermann doesn’t even bother to try and stop the way he squirms from the feel of it; the strange static that bursts out like a Tesla coil when Newton finds his prostate. It is a completely exquisite torture, and one Newton is obnoxiously good at; he has Hermann dissolving into a quivering, shuddering, _leaking_ mass in a few practiced strokes. Hermann endures it for as long as he can, crying out when Newton adds another finger and feeling the wet patch spreading on the pillow beneath him. His fingers and toes scrabble for purchase on the bed, body overloaded with such intense pleasure-pain he isn’t sure if he wants to escape or wants it to never end. He can’t see Newton in his position but he knows what the man will be like; watching Hermann with that slightly unhinged, too-sharp-too-smug-too-alien grin, eyes bright and manic and gleaming blue in the dark, wild hair surrounded by a corona of stars from the open ceiling above them and—

“S-stop! Enough.”

Too much, pleasure finally tilting over into pain.

Newton stills immediately, though doesn’t pull out his fingers. Just leans forward, lays kisses across Hermann’s shoulders and spine and mutters soft things like _ssh babe we’ve got you_ and _fuck you’re so fucking hot_ as Hermann gasps and waits for his heart to calm down.

It takes rather longer than he’d like, but he supposes he is not nearly as young as he used to be. He also supposes “sex-induced heart-attack” would not be _the_ worst way for him to go, even if, for all the man’s Cat-V-sized ego, Newton would rather disagree.

The though makes him huff a laugh, just a little, and Newton takes it as a sign. “Ready for us?” he asks.

Hermann nods, and starts to roll over, enough for Newton to get the hint and remove his hand. The loss of his fingers makes Hermann feel cold and empty, but he consoles himself with the way the new position allows him an excellent view of his husband, looming overhead.

“I’m rather curious to see what you’ve done to yourself,” Hermann admits, propping himself up onto his elbows.

Newton’s grin gets, if anything, even bigger as he gestures towards his furiously hard prick like a salesman presenting a new product.

Hermann hums and reaches out, trusting his fingers to tell him what his eyes can’t, in the dark.

“You’re a little bigger,” Hermann surmises. Maybe twenty or thirty millimeters longer and very slightly thicker. And, even more than that: “And . . . ridges?”

“Gnngh,” says Newton, who’s been rather aroused for a rather long time, and is very excited to finally be touched. Because, yes; there are very slight, very non-human ridges now running the length of his prick. They also feel _tremendously_ familiar.

“You genetically modified your own prick to resemble my favorite dildo,” Hermann guesses. Because, yes. He does, indeed, know the feel of this; his old companion for many, lonely years. Now apparently brought to life in living, throbbing flesh. “You are an absolute madman, you know that? You could be using this knowledge to cure every disease known to man and yet _this_ is what you do.”

“Th-they’re not— not _mutually exclusive_ ,” Newton pants. “You know we’ve got the— the thing with the— the, oh fuck yeah, the thing.”

A research agreement with the University of Hong Kong’s medical school. Yes, Hermann is well aware. And they have been making absolutely mind-bending progress, with some of the first therapies already in human trials. That does not mean he will not tease his husband in the meantime.

“I suppose I should let you try out your little experiment then, hm? How would you like me?”

“Fuck. Fuck yeah, come— come to the edge.”

The fact that the bed is strangely elevated makes sense approximately sixteen seconds later, when Newton is standing on the floor, Hermann on his back on the mattress, hips propped on a pillow and knees hooked over Newton’s shoulders. They line up perfectly and Hermann is perfectly comfortable. The realities of his body mean intimacy can occasionally be an exercise in logistics, but Newton always was tremendously sex-motivated and so _of course_ he built this room with that in mind. Hermann has no idea why he expected anything less.

The fact that they can do this while Hermann has an exceptional view of both his husband and the stars also does not escape him.

“Fuck,” says Newton, eloquent as ever. “Fuck yeah you’re so hot. Gonna make you feel so good.”

“You’ve been doing that all night, darling,” Hermann says. “I rather think it’s your turn now.”

Newton throws back his head at the words, giggling and shuddering with pleasure. When he looks back down again he’s doing something with his jaw, and Hermann is somehow unsurprised when he spits out a rather large gob of faintly blue-glowing mucus into his hand.

It’s a bit too strange to be truly disgusting, and Hermann just raises an eyebrow as Newton starts using it to slick up his own prick. “I assume you’ve _very thoroughly_ tested your . . . secretions for human safety.”

“Dude,” says Newton, as if offended Hermann would even ask. “It’s cellulose-based, relax. We’re not gonna give you Blue poisoning in your asshole.”

“The color is just f—” His breath hitches as Newton’s fingers move on to refreshing the slick around his hole. “Just for fun, then, I suppose?”

His only answer is a grin, Newton wiping his hands on the bed then reaching up to shift them both into position.

Hermann sighs and leans back as he feels Newton’s prick nudge against his hole. He concentrates on his own body as it’s breached, both opening up and bearing down in a way that has Newton groaning and cursing in bliss.

The feeling from Hermann’s end is . . . well. It’s _perfect_ , if a little strange (but what isn’t, where Newton is concerned?). The love of Hermann’s life, living and present and real, and the feel of Hermann’s long-favored toy; a blend of the comfortable and the familiar and the new and the bizarre. He almost doesn’t know what to make of it, other than to simply close his eyes and allow his mind to fall quiet and still and lose itself in the sensations.

“How— how’s that?” Newton asks, when he starts to move, voice tinted with the hesitance he gets when he’s asking for an opinion he ascribes a real weight to.

So Hermann allows himself a blissful smile and sighs, “Brilliant, darling. You’re absolutely brilliant, as always.”

“Oh,” he gets in return. “Awesome.” Newton sounds truly pleased with the answer, and the rhythm of thrusting he falls into is gentle and unhurried.

Hermann matches it with his own rocking, body deliciously oversensitive from all the activity, prick half-hard and pulsing pre across his belly, trying desperately for a second climax Hermann knows he will not reach. Fucked beyond stimulation, mind and body a blur of white noise. Hermann floats in it, like he’s an inch or so above himself, disconnected and free. The only sounds are the slick slap of flesh and Newton’s nonsensical sex-babble; a mix of inarticulate curses and half-formed praise, deliriously happy in a way that swells Hermann’s own heart and his own pride in turn. That he can do that for his partner, for his lover. That they can be connected in this way, be the source of these sensations for one another.

Eventually, Newton’s thrusting speeds up, as it was always going to. He isn’t quite angling for Hermann’s pleasure but he’s hitting it often enough it sends startling little shocks through Hermann’s limbs, forces gasps from his throat. The physicality of it builds enough to pull him back into himself, that horizon between pleasure and pain once more coming into view. Hermann opens his eyes to push it back, focuses on the silhouette of his husband and the splattering of the Milky Way behind him.

Newton sees him, and gasps: “Tell us. Tell us what you see. Tell us their names.”

So Hermann does. Aldebaran and Elnath. Capella and Pollux. He lists the brightest, traces the constellations, as Newton’s voice falls into inarticulate, breathy gasps and Hermann feels his body tense, feels the sweat on his chest and shoulders.

He comes somewhere between Alphard and Zhang, in Hydra, that great beast from the ocean depths. He’s bright eyed and laughing as it happens, mad and beautiful and deliriously pleased; with himself and Hermann and the world. Hermann watches him, soft and buzzing and happy, and for a while afterwards they’re just still, silent but for Newton’s heaving breath and the pounding of the waves on Alice’s sides.

Then:

“So-oo-oo . . . not bad for a test run, then?”

“Hm,” says Hermann, smirking a well-fucked smirk. “We may have to try a few more experiments. Just to be sure.”

The blue light glints off Newton’s canines as he grins while, overhead, the stars slowly turn.

* * *

Hermann wakes up a rather indulgent number of hours later to the feel of movement and, confusingly, the stars drifting far-too-quickly in a brilliant navy sky.

It takes him a rather long time of confused blinking for his brain to come back online enough to realize that what he’s seeing, through Alice’s still-open carapace, isn’t actually space. It’s the sea. Marine snow, in fact, catching Alice’s light as she winds them through whatever depths they’re currently traversing.

Hermann watches for a while, lazy and content, as schools of silvery fish and other, less identifiable, things dart overhead. He feels warm and lose and for a while considers simply going back to sleep, though eventually the urge to piss wins out, and he rises almost in spite of himself.

There’s a thick, plush robe hanging in a little nook in the bathroom and Hermann takes it and belts it around himself once he’s attended to his immediate needs. They aren’t deep enough that it’s totally dark, and Hermann manages to locate the panels that turns on the lights. The interface has a strange sense of déjà vu about it Hermann assumes must mean it was created by his alternate self, and he reminds himself to ask Newton for the code and the schematics when they return to the ‘Dome.

There’s a Nespresso machine in the kitchenette, as well as a box of pastries and a bowl of cut fruit, and Hermann assembles himself a serviceable breakfast he takes out into the cockpit to consume.

Newton is there, dressed in workout gear, cross-legged in his pilot’s chair and surrounded by displays that look to be sourced from external cameras (eyes?) all over Alice’s body. He’s alternating between tapping furiously into a tablet and pointing at various creatures visible through the screens and the windows, though looks up with a brilliant smile when Hermann approaches, stretching up his arms for a good morning embrace Hermann happily gives him.

“Oceanographic survey?” Hermann guesses, nodding at the displays.

“Yup!” comes the response. “We’re following Hundun’s path. Comparing the biodiversity to some of the more recent sites.”

“The James Cook work?” Another research partnership, with an Australian university this time.

“Yeah. We’re probably gonna go check out Challenger Deep in a few days, if you wanna come with.”

“In Alice? Can she get down that far?” Hermann drifts over to his own side of the console, tentative touch to the surface rewarded with the HUD flickers to life.

Newton makes an inarticulate _ionno_ sort of sound in response to Hermann’s question. Then: “But it’ll be fun to find out!”

“Mm.” Even with the War, the number of humans to have ever visited the site of the old Breach can still be counted in the single digits. The idea of adding himself to that list is . . . appealing. “I suppose it could be useful,” Hermann says. “To take some readings.”

“Cool. We’ll let you know. Might be just us or might have some tag-alongs, still working out the details.”

Hermann gives a hum in response, placing his coffee down and eating his fruit as he scrolls through Alice’s HUD. It doesn’t take him long to find the diagnostics interface, and he soon loses himself in numbers and read-outs.

“We can hear you redesigning systems from over here, dude,” Newton eventually says, not looking up from his tablet.

“I’m merely . . . curious.” The cybernetic interfaces Newton achieved with Shao’s drones were truly extraordinary, for all the harm they did. Being able to observe an even more advanced system in live operation is . . . It’s breathtaking.

“We told Hermann Prime, only enough to get us up and running,” Newton explains. “He had to leave all the fun tweaks to you. If he wants to mess around he can grow his own Alice in his own universe.”

“Oh. I, uh—”

“It’s cool,” Newton adds. “If you wanna, like. Improve her. She’d like that; it’s what she’s for.”

“Well,” says Hermann, who does not want to cast aspersions on the exemplary efforts of his alternate self. “There perhaps are a _few_ areas that could be tweaked, now that I’ve seen her performance first-hand.”

“Attaboy,” says Newton, and grins as he goes back to counting his fish.

So Hermann reads, and thinks, and eats his breakfast and drinks his coffee. They have a few more lazy hours before they’re due back; definitely enough time to for another quick flight, once Newton’s finished his own work. Hermann smiles as he thinks of it, moving back to the cabin’s rear to brush his teeth and dress, passing Alice’s tank as he does so, fingers pressing gently against the glass.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't actually find a night sky simulator that went all the way to circa 2036ish (not to mention Newt's island doesn't have an exact location on account of, y'know, not being real), so apologies all astronomers who're reading this like, "That wouldn't be visible then!"


End file.
